


Undisclosed

by polotiz



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergent, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lots of Angst, Only half of 3x07 happened, Protective Clarke, is there such a thing?, lexa has battle rage, nobody died then, nobody is dying now, nobody major that is, vanilla smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 23:57:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10752441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polotiz/pseuds/polotiz
Summary: You sing the song you gave to Atom.You sing until there are no more words and there is no more melody, until the rocking turns into shuddering and shuddering becomes sobbing and she releases your hand, her body falling limp against yours and it is all you can do to keep the both of you upright, suddenly grateful for the wall at your back.Lexa battles demons.Clarke won't allow her to do it alone.Inspired by "Undisclosed Desires" by MuseI don't know what I was thinking... but, give it a go?





	Undisclosed

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so this came out of nowhere, but... well... here we go.  
> Nothing triggery (I hope!) but please let me know if it is so I can tag appropriately (I am still getting used to tags)

The clamour is unmistakeable. It rouses you from a fitful sleep; fraught with the shadows and demons you had come to accept would always haunt your subconscious; a relentless, unsated reckoning you are rarely without these days.

You climb from your bed of furs, sweeping an arm across yourself to release your lightly-clad body to the chill of the night, eyes adjusting to the grey-white hue cast into the room by a rising moon. The moment your bare feet connect with frigid concrete your fingers clench into the bedding, but it is no more than a reflexive action, for the sounds you hear outside are far more pressing.

You cross the room quietly; an unconscious habit now that you have seen life fraught with so much danger you have learned to always keep an eye on your shadow. Your hand is on the doorhandle before you realise, and before you can stop yourself you are pulling open your door to reveal a full armored guard procession down the corridor. You watch _kongeda_ soldiers sweep past you, and you find yourself craning your neck over the hurried feet and hurried whispers following the hooded figure as it strides further down the hall, toward the Commander’s quarters.

 _Heda_ , you hear. _You must stop._

The words slide like ice under your skin and immediately you edge your body through the doorway, paying no regard to the time or your state of undress. They could challenge _wanheda_ if they so desired, but you expect they wouldn’t. Not now.

Your feet carry you behind the procession, so much of a commotion ahead you feel nothing more than a shadow until the moment the first guard looks over his shoulder, blade drawn. The look you give him is calculated in its ferocity and you allow yourself a brief moment of satisfaction as he steps automatically to the side; nudging his partner out of the way.

There is a hiss and a whisper up ahead as you peel past the next row of guards and suddenly you are halted by Indra moving into your path, back stiff and jaw set. Behind her, the door to the commander’s chambers closes, and you level your eyes at the silhouettes moving behind them.

You shoot Indra a glare, then move to step around her.

“Wanheda.”

Indra presses a hand to your chest, forcing you back. She must see the fury flash in your eyes as her hand releases its pressure a fraction and she shakes her head, looking away. “ _Clarke_.” It takes you by surprise; Indra almost never addresses you such, and you find your anger washing away like a thin layer of dust in a rainstorm, leaving confusion and concern clinging to your body. You frown, tilting your head at the sight of the great general of Trikru standing before you; lips pursed, head turned away.

“Indra.” Your voice is raspier than you had hoped it would be. “What has happened?”

Her eyes dart back to yours, dark even in the light of the corridor.

“War.” She says simply. Glancing behind her again, she steps forward, forcing you one step back to maintain distance. “You know this more than anyone.”

Your heart clenches, leaving your body restless, and your eyes shift once again to the figures cast in shadow inside the frosted glass doors.

“I need to see her.” You say, resolute, and you make again to step around the woman, only to be stopped by an outstretched arm across your chest, yet again barring you. You chance a glance down and notice for the first time the notches carved into the arm guards; the splatters of blood painting the leather. Your heart thuds more loudly in your chest you can feel it in your ears, yet you push forward. “ _Indra_ ” You hiss, “I _need_ to see her.”

Now _every_ fibre of your being is burning with the need to be on the other side of those doors; to offer her all of your protection.. all of _you_ ; just as you had promised her. But Indra holds fast, her eyes impossibly dark, jaw set.

“It is not advisable.” She says, her arm steady across your chest. You could bypass her. You could step around her easily and move beyond toward the doors but something holds you back; something in the eyes of her general and the reach of her protection. “Heda needs time.”

She must sense the challenge in your eyes as her own soften in a way you have not seen before – yet another complex layer to this woman you only barely know - leaving you uncertain and wavering when she adds-

“Clarke, I know what she is to you. But tonight, she can’t be.” Lowering her arm she steps to the side, nudging your shoulder back in a deliberate move. “Give her peace.”

Suddenly the doors to the commander’s room burst open, at once flooding the long corridor with light. Indra's head snaps around as two burly soldiers and a smaller woman gripping a tattered rag march toward you, eyes trained forward. Brow furrowed you stare at the rag, unable to stop the hitch in your breath at the sight of blackened stains spattering the dusty fabric.

Much like her barrier to you, Indra stops the small woman with a hand to her upper arm, gripping and forcing her to a stop. The soldiers continue on down the corridor as if nothing has happened.

So close, you can make out the features of her now; and she is barely a girl, wiry brown hair bundled loosely atop her head in a messy bun, her features weathered by difficult years, lips turned down in a low scowl, brow tight and cheeks drawn.

 _“There is no more I can do.”_ She speaks in trigedasleng, eyes darting across to you as if testing whether you understand. Dutifully, you feign ignorance; staring blankly at the wall above her head. Seemingly satisfied, she straightens slightly and nods once to Indra.  _“I will visit her in the morning._ ”

 _“Thank you”_ Indra replies.

 _“I can only heal the body.”_ The woman says. “ _I cannot heal-“_ she touches her finger to her temple, then her heart, and at once your eyes widen and your skin tingles and you can’t stop yourself. It bursts from you like a spring rain – the courage and clarity that you need to be there... _need_ to be with her…

You brush past Indra without another word, the surprised look on the young healer’s face the last thing you see; your name on Indra’s lips the last thing you hear until the cool brass of her door is the first thing you feel and it is all you need to push forward, to push inward and your heart soars as you press yourself in through those doors and to _her_ and you _know…._

Nothing.

You know nothing.

Because she stands, tall and strong and utterly _empty_ , and she stares at you.

“Clarke.”

Even her voice has an edge to it you haven't heard since... since the Mountain.

And it frightens you so much you do not speak, you only cross the distance between the two of you and press your lips to hers, fingers curling into the sleeves of her tunic to hold her in place... as if doing so you can root her to the present and rip her away from the horror of war.

And it has been a week.

It has been a _week_ and you haven’t seen her and she’s here and she’s _here_ … and you are kissing her and she is warm and strong and _alive_. And it’s everything all at once and your heart thuds hard against your sternum you wonder if she can feel it beneath her clothing... if she can feel  _you_. 

But the second you hear the release of a held breath stutter across your cheek you startle and pull away, an apology tumbling from your lips, and you know you have not given her time, you have not given her space, you have not protected her as you must. You step away, hands rising between the two of you, ready to apologise a second time.

But in moments her arms are around your waist, hands pushing up your back, fingers digging into the space between your shoulder blades, nails sharp in the delicate material of your sleep-shirt.

When she kisses you, you want more than anything for it to feel the way it should.

But it doesn’t.

And you know it.

Your eyes are wide as she releases then pushes against you; palms flat against your chest until you are flush against the wall. You feel the air leave your lungs with a quiet ‘oof’ but before you have time to regain yourself she is there again; tongue pushing past your lips without ceremony, fingers vice-like in their grip of your upper arms, thigh wedged between yours… hungry, wanting, _desperate_ … and the heat that surges to your core at her ferocity is almost enough to drown out the twist at your gut, because you know that this… _this_ is not right.

 _“_ Lexa- _”_ you gasp, drawn mercilessly into the furtiveness of her hands, the press of her tongue and the sting of her teeth on your bottom lip until you taste only iron and copper and realise she has bitten through. “ _Lexa.”_

But Indra’s warning echoes in your ears, and you wriggle your body into enough space to slip from her grasp, and nudge her away from you with a forearm to her abdomen. The hiss of pain the movement elicits from her makes your eyes immediately snap to hers in alarm, the image of the young woman and her bloody rag flashing in your mind, and you curse yourself for your carelessness a second time.

But all you are met with is the quiet curl of lips into a smile – eyes filled with relief.

And then, to your horror her fingers curl around the wrist that is wedged between you both, and she pushes herself into the back of your hand until you feel the distinct texture of a bandage pressing into your skin, and her eyes slide shut and her jaw clenches and she rocks against you, each movement driving further and further into where you know an injury to be.

“ _Lexa_.” You breathe her name again, your attempts to release yourself thwarted by a strength you knew existed but had never encountered, not when it came to _this_. Her forehead falls to your shoulder and she shifts even closer to you and you can feel the sticky heat of her blood gathering over your palm, between you both and you know that whatever work the young healer had performed to keep her Heda together, has just been undone.

“Lexa _stop._ ” Your words are desperate now, pleading, the iciness in your stomach winding its way into your lungs, but still she pushes harder, presses more firmly, so much so that you are totally trapped and her free hand leaves your shoulder, sliding beneath the belt at her waist and further, until she gasps and her teeth sink into the delicate muscle at your neck.

And she moves.

And your heart shatters as you realise what she is doing, and why.

Tears slip down your cheeks as she rocks into you, her breath scorching against your skin, coming short and fast as she works herself up and up. You don’t even know if you could jostle her loose; you don’t even try. You only lean your head toward her ear and brush your nose carefully, slowly along the length of her sweaty cheek as her blood pools on the ground between your feet.

You sing.

You sing to the percussion of her heart, thudding against her chest and yours, to the syncopation of her ragged breaths, drawn hot and fast at your shoulder. You sing to the shattered soul beneath the leather and the fastenings and the kohl that now lies smudged against your own cheek.

You don’t stop, not even when she cries out her release, and you feel the side of her cheek hot and wet against your temple. You only lift your free hand to her nape, the cords of her throat straining against your fingertips as gently, so, so gently, you brush them over her skin, pressing your lips to the delicate spaces only you know.

You sing the song you gave to Atom.

You sing until there are no more words and there is no more melody, until the rocking turns into shuddering and shuddering becomes sobbing and she releases your hand, her body falling limp against yours and it is all you can do to keep the both of you upright, suddenly grateful for the wall at your back.

Old recollections of discarded pain draw together like a gathering mist, settling in the space between the two of you. You can feel her teeth bared in agony in your neck and the feeling scorches your very being, how long she has shouldered these burdens alone. You hold her head to your body with a gentle pressure, too afraid to look too far into the desolation you know you will find in her eyes.

“I’m here.” Your voice feels weighted down, and you slide your arm out from between you, ignoring the black streaks that mar your skin to tangle your fingers in the braids at her scalp. “I’m here with you, Lexa.”

Your own tears fall in earnest, collecting at the sides of your jaw, spilling into your shirt.

“I won’t let you go.”

You stand until her tremors lessen and the warm splatters at your bare feet become too much. The room has stilled, and the night opening its arms to the calm of quieting winds. The chill is ever-present though, and it worms its way up from the soles of your feet.

“You are hurt.” You say softly, combing your hand once through her hair, your other arm braced under hers where she stands slumped against your frame, her own hand now hanging limply by her side.

“Let it bleed.” The words bite into the space between neck and shoulder, and though they do not surprise you, the venom with which they are spoken chills your bones. Your hand settles gently atop the crown of Lexa’s head and you hold it there, your lower lip pulled between your teeth.

“No.” You say finally, and against all of your desire you push her away from you, far enough to take her in, green irises laid bare by the stains that pull down her cheeks like hundreds of angry fingers wishing desperately to strip off her war paint; shake it to nothing. With insurmountable care you trace them; trace their path down to her chin, where you stop, tilting your head.

“You have bled enough.” You tell her, unable to curb the waver in your own voice. “I have seen too much of it.”

Her eyes close and she turns away from you; fingers clenching into fists by her side. You watch the rise and fall of her chest, unsteady, erratic, like a frightened wild animal, and you can’t help but place your hand above the space her heart lies.

“ _Lexa…_ ” You murmur again, your eyes darting down to the dark stain at her stomach. “You do not deserve this.”

She scoffs, a vicious exhale of air, and you move back into her space, your hands on either side of her face, willing her to look at you. Daring yourself the same.

Nothing can prepare you for the storm you find raging within her eyes. The green has darkened like a thousand rainclouds waiting to wreak havoc on the ground below.  The black of her pupils are wide; the lick of flame reflecting from the candlelight in the room like vast war-camps stretching all the way to her soul.

You want nothing more than to protect her from it all.

“Ai hodness.” You whisper, releasing one hand to run your fingers along the length of her hairline, your thumb brushing across her brow. You realise she is trembling again, the set of her jaw unsteady as she stares at you, and you move your face closer, until your foreheads are touching and your shadow dulls the fire. You close your eyes, allowing the stillness of the moment to calm your racing heart. "My love," you repeat, swallowing past the tightness in your throat. ".. _please_."

You don't even know what you are asking for, you can only brush your lips carefully over hers, feeling her sharp intake of breath at the contact. You slide your nose gently along her temple again to her ear, keeping your hands still.

“I will not let you go.” You repeat, to the very turmoil that you know ravages her and threatens to tear her apart. For you have seen it many times, and while it frightens you, nothing does more than the idea of losing her.

Lexa offers her acquiescence in the form of a stuttering exhale and tiny pressure back against your forehead, and in that small moment your tiny battle is won and your heart soars. You release one hand to link your fingers together with hers, and tug her gently toward the bed, urging her down with a gentle nudge to her shoulder.

She allows you to tend to her, as you hoped she would.

The gash is deep, and as you expected the stitches are torn, and she winces with every pass of the cloth over her abdomen, muscles bunching and rippling reflexively as you gently wipe the blood from the wound. You notice the shape and angle of it, the jagged edges that indicate the weapon used was blunt, and clumsily wielded. Your hands still at her navel and your brow furrows, and you know her eyes are on you by the way her breathing changes, and her body shifts.

“He was not more than twelve years old.”

Her voice is barely loud enough to carry, but is filled with so much despair it claws at the spaces between your ribs and draws your eyes immediately to hers. Instinctively your fingers splay outward, as if warding off any further damage – real or imagined.

“He attacked you.” You say, and you watch the quiet bob of her throat as she nods, only once. Her eyes flicker closed, another single tear sliding down her temple.

“He was protecting his father… his family.” She says, and you know she is fighting the urge to look back at you, the pain in her voice is so visceral now it reaches straight through your skin and grips your heart, vice-like.

“And you were protecting me.” You answer, and her eyes lock on yours, confusion writ across her face for a fleeting moment until you rest your fingertips on the edges of the wound. Blinking away the heat of fresh tears you turn back to her, “Would you have me try to live without you again?”

She doesn’t answer, but the question unlocks something within you, and you feel the furrow of your own brow, the feeling of your palm against her stomach stirring shadows, nightmares that for days were your reality. You stare at your hand, imagining the blackness pulsing from between your fingers; spilling out onto the bed, the floor… everywhere but where it should have been-

It chokes you, it _chokes_ you with its ferocity and suddenly a sob wracks your body, unexpected and violent, and you shield your face from the embarrassment of _again…_

Until a hand slides, warm and strong over yours, and holds.

“Clarke.”

Your name sounds like salvation on her lips, and slowly, you open your eyes again, finding yourself staring into deep pools of black rimmed by emerald, and you know something has shifted… something  primal and aware that has turned the room to static and the bed to nothing but adrenaline.

You don’t give her the opportunity to rise before your body surges toward hers, your lips finding their home in the gentle hunger of her kiss; your fingertips greedy on her exposed skin as you swallow her gasp, feel the press of her tongue against yours, the slide of the two of you together.

The kiss is so very different from the fervent struggle of earlier. Now Lexa’s lips move more slowly, drawing you closer, allowing you in. You map the spaces inside her mouth, swallowing her reluctance and her pain and giving back to her a reverent tenderness that echoes in the way she arches into you, seeking more and more from your hands as hers work under your sleep shirt and ease it off your body.

The fire coursing through your veins answers you, and without breaking contact draws you up and over her body, braced so carefully above her your forearms burn with the effort and – a part of your believes – the ache of not being in contact with her skin.

Your eyes are closed but you can feel her when she pleads with you, in the gentle moan that slips past her lips and into your own mouth, and you answer in kind by lowering yourself down on her left side, careful of the injury that mars her right. Her hips lift from the furs, her thigh slipping between yours and you can’t help your needy gasp at the pressure against your core, relishing the way her fingers immediately press into your back at the sound.

“Lexa.” You rasp, your voice caged and thick. She pushes her leg up and your eyes slam shut, a growl pulled from your throat and your right arm collapses underneath you, your forehead falling onto the pillow beside her head. You think you hear a faint chuckle rumble through her and you feel her fingers graze the slope of your spine from where you have pinned her arm underneath your prone body.

And you are hurtled back to the moment you saw her and your first thoughts as you barrelled through the doors-

She is _alive._

She is alive and you are alive and it is all you can do to keep the rush of emotion that reality brings from threatening to overwhelm you.

So you show her. You show her in the way your tears fall past your lips and onto hers, in the gentleness with which you undo her bindings, the careful movement of your fingertips as they traverse the expanse of her body as if mapping old yet familiar territory.

As if coming home after years away.

And you feel her breaths shorten, her body shift toward you, as you find solace in the way her mouth moves against yours; loving…. Honest.

Your fingers move down to her waistband, down and down and you take care to be so gentle, so intent on showing her how much you want her, how much you love her, how much you _need_ her to be alive, and you kiss the tremble of her lips when your fingers slide into her heat, swallow her gasp when you slip inside, and move with her as she moves with you.

You open your eyes once, only once, and you curl your fingers and your heart fills with the way she bites at her lip, the knot of her brow, the sweat building at her hairline.  Her breaths are hot against your cheek, but she is silent, and when you kiss her she returns it with all too much control for what you want from this.

You slow your rhythm only slightly, as your right hand moves to cradles the back of her neck, holding her closer to your body, and you draw back far enough to touch your foreheads together again…

“I’m here, Lexa.” You say, your fingers strong and resolute and loving and intimate, and slowly you increase your pace again, rewarded by whimpers too soft for any  _Heda_ , and when you press a kiss to her lips it is with the gentle understanding that she doesn't have to be.. not with you.. as you lift her higher and higher until you can feel her shaking around you and beneath you.

Her eyes fly open, boring into yours with so many questions, so many reservations, but with your fingers and your lips and your voice you take care and take time to soothe each and every one, until her mouth is hanging open and her eyes are bright and she is looking only to you as her body rises further from the bed and you smile so softly, whispering her name in the tiny space between your shared breaths.

And her body goes rigid and her eyes search yours openly and longingly, hands curled into fists and brow lifted so high in surprise it is all you can do to stop yourself from kissing away her beautiful gasps as she nears release, and you brush your thumb behind her ear where your other hand is still cupped at her nape, and smile.

“It’s alright, _ai niron_.” You whisper, “Let go.”

And she does.

And she does and she does until she hasn’t an ounce more to give, and her body is spent and slack against you when she curls into your chest and her heaving breaths turn into gasps which turn into sobs you hold her and soothe her with all the words you thought you would regret never saying…

And you sing.

You sing the song your father sang you, when you were young and filled with hope.

Before he died and the sky fell

Before the mountain collapsed and took you with it.

And as you sing, you stare at the wonder of her in your arms; the commander who left you to die, and the woman who brought you back to life.

You sing them both to sleep.


End file.
